


Galadriel's Champion

by SusanaR



Series: Desperate Hours Alternative Universe G version (DH AU G) [33]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Banter, Champion - Freeform, Cousins, Family, Friendship, Galadriel - Freeform, Gen, Humor, March to Barad-dur, lock of hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 00:47:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1761047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SusanaR/pseuds/SusanaR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Galadriel’s family learn that she has given a lock of her hair to that unlikeliest of elven allies, a dwarf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Galadriel's Champion

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you again to everyone who has left me encouraging reviews! A thank you to Beth, as well. Her Gimli is always a joy to read about, and an inspiration to me when trying to write him.

Legolas Thranduilon, Prince of the Greenwood, a lieutenant of Greenwood’s army, and archer of the fellowship, frowned at his wet left boot and leggings. His foot would not blister, nor did he risk falling sick as some of their human companions might at such a small inconvenience, but it was the nevertheless quite irritating. 

To one accustomed to moving through the trees nearly as swiftly as the wind, marching at the pace of a human army, even with frequent trips ahead and to the rear to scout, was quite slow indeed. Legolas had been hoping that they could avoid a detour around yet another of the pretty yet interminable rivers which beribboned Ithilien like a maiden’s spring time gown, and had gone to look at what seemed to be a promisingly dry route. 

The Ithilien rangers had not discouraged him, merely mentioning that it was a path they had never taken, and one which they would be loathe to take an army over, not knowing it well. His dwarven friend Gimli, on the other hand, had stated his opposition to the idea.

“Eh, elf, as sure as you know how many arrows are in your quiver, that is the porous roof of a not-so-dry cave ye’d be walking over. No fit path for an army, and even ye will be risking an ankle.”

 

Legolas had deemed that wholly unlikely. “I’ve not seen a single cave since we started our way through Ithilien.” He pointed out, “You may live in hope that we’ll get to stumble through the dark again, Gimli, but for myself, I’ll see if traversing over this hill is shorter than searching for the ford.”

“But there are a very large number of caves….” One of the rangers had begun to protest, only to be cut short by Gimli’s “Hush, now, he has to go and find out for himself. Stubborn beings, elves.”

“Oh, and dwarves are perfectly reasonable?” Legolas shot back in a friendly fashion as he leapt nimbly up the mossy green hill.

“Do keep yer footing, lad.” Was Gimli’s only reply, in place of his usual return sally. The genuine concern in his dwarven friend’s voice made Legolas step more gingerly than he otherwise might have. Which did not save his left leg from half-a-soaking when the hill did, in fact, turn out to be the roof of a cave with more than a few large holes in it, but it did save him from wrenching the limb.

Still, wet boots were never fun. Legolas frowned at his leg again, wondering exactly how much teasing he would be in for if he asked Elladan for the dry pair of leggings the younger peredhel twin had quietly offered him earlier in the day.

 

Gimli, eyes twinkling as he smoked his pipe at their fire, teased, “Would ye like a towel, Legolas? Or perhaps some warm milk?”

 

Before Legolas could think up a suitable rejoinder, Pippin wistfully said, “I’d like some warm milk. With cinnamon. Or any milk, really, even that goat milk which was on offer yesterday.”

Lord-the-Captain Rumil of Lothlorien, whom Legolas did not know nearly so well as he knew Rumil’s older brother Orophin, smiled fondly at the hobbit and then looked up at the retainer against whose side he was leaning. “Faron? You have some of the goat’s milk, do you not? Do give it to Squire Pippin. I’ve never cared for the taste.”

The tall dark-haired elf Faronglas Sinyefalion, sergeant and bodyguard both to Lord Rumil, frowned at his Lord-and-charge. Rumil had survived an axe wound to the head at the Battle of Helm’s Deep. He had been left behind with the other wounded Rorhirrim and Galadhrim, but had come to join the army anyway. From Orophin’s tales of his younger brother, and Elrohir’s tales of his youngest uncle, it did seem like something in keeping with Lord Rumil’s character. Legolas was quickly beginning to like him.

“I will do so, young-my-Lord, if you will eat the rest of your supper.” Faronglas said with good humor, his trust in Rumil’s honor such that even as he said so he was handing a flask of goat’s milk to young Pippin.

“Half.” Interrupted Elladan, “Half of his supper. He’s still having headaches, and I don’t want him sicking up. It will set back his progress, and it’s best to increase his meals gradually in any case.”

Rumil bore this indignity with relative good grace, although he did regard Elladan reproachfully as he commented, “You once teethed on my gloves and braids, nephew. Do show a modicum of respect, if you will.”

I respect you greatly, Uncle Rumil.” Elladan assured the blue-eyed elf fondly, “But if you want to ride into battle in just over a week’s time, you must listen to your healer.”

“It could be less time than that if we didn’t stop to tarry around every river like gawping tourists.” Legolas complained, feeling, besides frustrated at the army’s slow pace, somewhat sympathetic towards Rumil. Legolas had himself been the patient of Elladan, Elrohir, and Elrond – and sometimes all three at once- during his almost five hundred years of life.

Elrond’s sons rolled their eyes tolerantly.

“There are many rivers in Ithilien, Legolas, but there are near as many caverns and underground rivers.” Aragorn pointed out kindly, laying a hand on Legolas’ shoulder. “It is best to travel the paths these folk know.”

“Could we not perhaps travel through some of the caves, Strider?” Pippin inquired hopefully, “That might be shorter, as well as less wet. And they can’t all contain balrogs.” Pippin theorized, with an apologetic glance towards Gimli. 

“No, Squire.” Denied Elrohir, at the same time as Gimli answered Pippin more kindly, “Nay, lad.”

Raising a surprised eyebrow at Elrond’s heir, Gimli stayed quiet, apparently waiting to hear what Elrohir had to say. Legolas made space for Aragorn to join them, hiding a smile as his human friend sat beside him and laid a fold of his cloak inconspicuously over Legolas’ damp leg, warming Legolas and hiding the evidence of his misadventure all at once.

“It is extremely dangerous to travel through unknown cave systems, particularly where there are underground rivers," Elrohir began, "Dangerous even if you know the way and take the proper precautions, and sheerest folly if you do not. Moreover, the Lords of the House of Hurin who once dwelled in these lands believed that these caves connect to the tunnels and dungeons under Minas Morgul.”

“Along the river route, or obliquely?” Asked Gimli, intrigued.

Elrohir blinked in surprise, seemed to remember that Gimli was a dwarf and as such would know such things, and then replied, “Obliquely, I believe, although there was some talk of the system branching out around…..” 

What followed was a rather technical and detailed discussion on the dangers and rewards of caving, which Legolas did not entirely follow. It seemed to be something which Elrohir was interested in, although of course nowhere near so much so as Gimli.

“How does an elf come to know so much about caverns?” Gimli asked, evidently impressed as well as disbelieving. Legolas, glad to see that his new friend and his favorite cousin were getting along well, didn’t bother to point out that Elrohir was not, technically-speaking, an elf.

“I learned from our mother, who learned from our grandmother.” Elrohir replied.

“Lady Galadriel.” Legolas prompted, in case Gimli had not kept track of the different relationships between the members of Aragorn’s foster-family.

Gimli evidently had, but he gave Legolas a fond, covert wink of gratitude anyway.

Elrohir nodded gravely. “Our grandmother the Lady Galadriel was a friend and ally to the dwarves of Khazad-dum, and learned much of cave-lore from them. She was also a student in her youth of the Vala Aule – your Mahal, I believe.” 

“Your grandmother,” Said Gimli fervently, “would be enough to turn the most elf-hating of dwarves into a staunch supporter of your race.”

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged glances of mild surprise.

“Just go with it.” Legolas advised them. He respected Lady Galadriel, and had not seen in her the haughtiness of which his father complained, but he did not really want to hear another lengthy paean from Gimli in praise of the myriad virtues of the White Lady.

“Ah.” Said Elrohir neutrally, following Legolas’ lead.

“Um, thank you?” Offered Elladan, following suit.

Rumil smiled proudly, appearing pleased by the compliment to his adoptive mother. “Nana is certainly unique.” He added calmly.

“Lady Galadriel gave Gimli a lock of her hair, to carry into war against the Enemy.” Aragorn explained quietly.

The twins, Rumil, and even Faronglas showed surprise at that. Which truly meant something, as elves who were over an age old – or, in Faronglas’ case, several ages old – were hard to surprise. But perhaps dwarves managed to do so frequently enough that it wasn’t particularly noteworthy to them.

After Legolas and Gimli both affirmed Aragorn’s story to their nearly disbelieving elders, it was calm Rumil who said with surprise, “Naneth never does that.”

“Indeed.” Agreed Elladan, “Grandmother Galadriel’s unwillingness to part with a lock of her hair once started a war, in a manner of speaking.”

Staunchly supportive of the lady, Gimli refuted, “Well, I’m sure that the individual was unworthy, and the Lady Galadriel’s response more than justified.”

As the elder elves and peredhil stared in shock at Gimli, Legolas struggled to remember whether that comment would offend any of them. Deciding that it might offend Faronglas, who had lived through the kinslayings in the first age, Legolas decided to say something which would both divert attention away from Gimli’s strong opinions and at the same time annoy Elrohir, paying him back for his disparaging comments about Legolas’ earlier dousing.

“Doesn’t hair mean something?” Legolas asked innocently, as if he truly didn’t know, “I mean, isn’t there a thing? About hair?” He paused, pleased by both the storm cloud growing on his cousin’s face and by Aragorn’s well-hidden amusement at Legolas’ favorite game of Elrohir-baiting. 

“Yes,” Elrohir sneered, looking perfectly disgusted, “There is a ‘thing.’ Legolas….” He began heatedly, likely preparing to disparage Legolas’ scholarship, or his long-suffering tutors, or even the state of royal education in the Greenwood in general.

Elladan placed a gentle hand on his twin’s arm, stopping Elrohir's incipient diatribe. “Yes, Legolas.” Elladan answered, in the tone of the encouraging scholar and story-teller rather than the disappointed teacher, “There is a myth, or even a magic, in giving someone a lock of your hair. It is giving them your honor to hold, as they venture forth into battle.”

Gimli nodded proudly at that. “I will strive my best to be worthy.” He said, and Legolas felt a moment of pride and affection for his determined, stubborn, and surprisingly kind companion.

“I think that mother chose well.” Said Rumil fondly, before concluding that, “She most often does.”


End file.
